


Bleed Until I Can't Breathe

by Sohotthateveryonedied



Series: Whumptober 2019 [28]
Category: Batman (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Dick Grayson is a Good Brother, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Grief, Hurt/Comfort, Mourning, Prompt: Numb, This Is Sad, Tim Drake Needs Help, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, but not really, it's been a busy day, sigh, sorry this was rushed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-08 06:44:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21231506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sohotthateveryonedied/pseuds/Sohotthateveryonedied
Summary: “I still see them,” Tim says. “I can’tstopseeing them every time I close my eyes, but...I can’t feel it anymore. I can’t feel the pain. I know it’s there, and I know it should hurt, but...it doesn’t. It doesn’t hurt anymore.”





	Bleed Until I Can't Breathe

**Author's Note:**

> Day 29: Numb
> 
> Title from "Stitches" by Shawn Mendes.

“Tim, did you take my jacket? You know, the one with the cuffed sleeves?”    
  
Dick pokes his head in Tim’s room, fiddling with a sprig of hair on his forehead that  _ refuses  _ to cooperate. Tim’s room is dark, and the curtains are drawn. There’s a Tim-sized lump on the bed.   
  
“Tim Drake is _ napping? _ Never thought I’d see the day,” Dick says, approaching the bed. “But I need my jacket back. Roy and I are going to Pottery Barn and salespeople don’t take me seriously unless I dress like a responsible adult.”    
  
He  _ could _ just look for the jacket himself, but Dick has given up on trying to navigate the disaster zone that is Tim’s room. Last time he attempted to make sense of the clutter, he found a light bulb in the fish tank and fish food in the lamp. Tim doesn’t even  _ have  _ a fish.    
  
“Tim?” he says again when Tim doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even move.    
  
While he’s glad Tim is sleeping for once in his life, it’s just abnormal enough to put him on edge. Getting Tim to take a break is like pulling teeth most days.    
  
Dick goes over to the bed. “Since when are you a heavy sleeper?” He peels back the comforter, revealing a pale face and fluffy black hair that looks like it hasn’t seen a hairbrush in days.    
  
The real kicker is that Tim is awake. His eyes are open, albeit dark and puffy around the lids. He doesn’t acknowledge Dick’s presence at all—stares through him like he’s not even there.    
  
Dick sighs. And to think, he let himself think they were past this for good. Evidently not.    
  
He kneels beside the bed, trying to capture Tim’s attention. He looks so tired. “Hey, buddy. One to ten?”    
  
They came up with this system a few years back: one being “fine” and ten being “about to jump off a bridge.” It’s easier for Tim to rank his feelings rather than having to describe them, and it gives Dick something to work with.    
  
Tim exhales softly, exhausted eyes sliding up to meet Dick’s. “...Eight,” he whispers. It’s so quiet Dick hardly hears him.    
  
Looks like he’s not going to Pottery Barn today. Carding his hand through Tim’s hair in an attempt to keep him present, Dick takes out his phone and shoots off a quick text to Roy:  _ Sry, reschedule? Family stuff.  _   
  
Then he focuses back on Tim. Notes his sallow complexion and the hollows beneath his eyes. “Have you eaten today?”    
  
Tim shrugs. Dick’s going to take that as a no. He tries to comb through the knots in Tim’s greasy hair. “When’s the last time you showered?”    
  
Another shrug. Dick sighs and stands up, tucking the comforter back around Tim’s shoulders. Dull eyes follow him. “Stay here, okay? I’ll be back in a sec.”    
  
Tim says nothing, and it shouldn’t creep out Dick as much as it does. It’s like talking to a ghost, except the ghosts he’s met are livelier than this.    
  
He goes downstairs to the kitchen and puts a kettle on the stove to boil. He has a feeling Tim won’t take any food he gives him, so they’ll see if he can stomach some tea. Baby steps have always proven best when Tim gets like this.   
  
Dick is taking down a mug and some tea bags when Alfred comes into the room, whistling some K-pop song Cass has been into lately. “Master Dick,” he greets warmly.    
  
“Alfred, have you noticed Tim acting weird today?”    
  
“I can’t say that I’ve seen him at all since yesterday.” He frowns. “Is he okay?”   
  
“Yeah, don’t worry I’ve got him upstairs. He’s being dark and twisty again.”    
  
Alfred nods. They’ve all been through this enough times by now. “Should I call your father?”   
  
The kettle whistles, and Dick pours some water into the mug. “I’ve got it covered, thanks. I’ll let you know if it gets any worse, but I think he just needs some comforting and it’ll pass.”    
  
A quick good luck from Alfred, and Dick takes the tea back upstairs. Tim hasn’t moved an inch in the ten minutes Dick has been gone. At least he didn’t fall asleep or go all zombie-like again.    
  
Dick places the steaming mug on the nightstand. He sits down on the bed and pats Tim’s leg through the blanket. “Come on, pal. Sit up for me?”    
  
At least Tim moves this time.  _ Finally. _ He grumbles and pulls the blanket over his face.    
  
Dick pulls the blanket back. “I know, but you’ve napped enough for today. Let’s go.” He finds Tim’s wrists and pulls, forcing him to sit up. Tim doesn’t resist—just goes limp and lets himself be manhandled into a sitting position, slouched against Dick’s side.    
  
Dick keeps him supported with one hand while the other reaches for the tea. He takes Tim’s hand and curls his fingers around the mug, only letting go when he’s sure Tim won’t drop it.    
  
Tim looks into the mug and his mouth twists downward; the most emotion Dick has seen so far. (That’s a good sign, right?) Tim has never been much of a tea person, but Dick doesn’t care so long as he gets some nutrients in him, and green tea is about as healthy as it gets.    
  
Tim takes a sip, like he doesn’t even have the energy to resist anymore. He winces when it scalds his tongue, then takes another sip.    
  
“You doing okay?” Dick asks eventually. He runs a hand up and down Tim’s back, feeling every notch in his spine even through the thick sweater.    
  
Tim shrugs.    
  
“Have you taken your meds?”   
  
A nod this time. Better.    
  
“Then what happened?”    
  
Tim just drinks his tea silently, eyes glazed.    
  
It’s no secret that Tim has Bad Days, but ever since Bruce came back, he’s been okay. Not perfect by any means, but okay. Instead of letting himself spiral into dark corners, he’ll find someone to talk to when he feels himself getting low. Dick or Jason or even Leslie when it’s especially heavy.    
  
Dick should have known better. Should have checked on him more; seen the signs that things were getting bad again. Tim has been through so  _ much  _ in the past few years. So much that Dick finds himself forgetting, in a horrible way.    
  
He forgets that Tim’s familiarity with tragedy isn’t something to be overlooked. Forgets that somewhere between those back-to-back tragedies, a piece of Tim broke away like a shattered Pangea, and it’s Dick’s job as his big brother to keep him intact.   
  
His thoughts cut off when Tim speaks, startling him. “Did—” His voice is hoarse. He clears his throat and tries again. “Did you know I have a photographic memory?”    
  
A bit out of left field, but he’ll take it. Dick nods and waits for Tim to continue.    
  
And, after half a minute, he does. “When my dad died, I had nightmares. I kept seeing his eyes and the blood and...all of it. I couldn’t stop seeing it.”    
  
Dick remembers. He and Bruce had been the ones to comfort Tim every time he woke up in the middle of the night, crying out for a father who wouldn’t answer. Dick would sit up with him and rub his back while Tim whispered visions of razor boomerangs and blood-slick palms.    
  
“And then Conner,” Tim continues. “Everywhere I went, it was like his ghost followed me. And Steph’s. And Bart’s, and Bruce’s…” Where normally there would be a hitch of breath, a crack of emotion, this time there is nothing.    
  
Dick doesn’t know what to say.    
  
“And I still see them,” Tim says. “I can’t  _ stop _ seeing them every time I close my eyes, but...I can’t feel it anymore. I can’t feel the pain. I know it’s there, and I know it should hurt, but...it doesn’t. It doesn’t hurt anymore.”    
  
He sets his gaze on Dick, eyes devoid of feeling but still carrying a hint of the sharpness that reassures Dick the Tim he knows is still in there, deep down. “Has that ever happened to you?”    
  
Dick is honest. “No.” It never stops hurting, even with time. It gets more bearable, sure, but he still feels a gallop in his chest whenever he thinks about his parents’ fall. The pain in his heart that came with hearing them crash.    
  
Tim doesn’t looked surprised by this answer. In fact, he nods slowly as though Dick just confirmed a thesis. “I think…” He licks his lips, eyes going distant again. “I think I’m broken.”   
  
“Oh, Tim...” Dick says, a knot lodging itself in his throat. He wraps his arms around Tim, who doesn’t lean into the touch like he usually does. “No, buddy, you’re not broken. Grief just...it does weird things to people.”    
  
“But it’s...I don’t think it’s grief. Not anymore.” Tim’s hand dips, nearly spilling the tea in his lap, so Dick takes the mug from him and places it back on the nightstand.   
  
Tim stares at a spot on the floor, brow furrowed. “Remember when Bart died?” Dick squeezes his shoulder. “I didn’t even cry. I got the call and I heard the words and I...I should have cried, right? That’s what you do when you’re sad. And I  _ was  _ sad, but—”    
  
His breath shudders, like he’s gone hollow. “I think I got used to it. It stopped hurting after a while, like he was just another one on the pile.”   
  
“You’ve been through a lot,” Dick says.    
  
“I tried. I tried crying and yelling and throwing things, but...I couldn’t feel it. Any of it.”   
  
“That doesn’t mean you can’t feel anything,” Dick says. “I know you do. You’re just...you’re healing. And sometimes a part of healing is needing time to process what you’re going through.”   
  
“Is this really healing?” Tim asks, head tilting. “Because it feels like every time this happens—every time someone I love dies—it just keeps getting deeper and deeper. Like there’s a hole inside me and one day it’s going to swallow me whole.”    
  
“It’ll get better,” Dick says. Because that’s what you’re supposed to say. Because he doesn’t know how else to respond to the overwhelming truth in Tim’s voice.   
  
Tim shakes his head slowly. And when he looks up at Dick, there is nothing in his eyes. No pain, no grief. Nothing but numb, tired acceptance. “I don’t think so.”   
  


**Author's Note:**

> [Feel free to mosey on down to my Tumblr!](http://sohotthateveryonedied.tumblr.com/)


End file.
